


Touch Me, Have Me, Make Me Yours

by DarthSuki



Category: The Dragon Prince (Cartoon)
Genre: Desperation, Dirty Talk, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff and Smut, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Season 2 spoilers, Shameless Smut, Spoilers, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-10-31 22:47:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17858459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarthSuki/pseuds/DarthSuki
Summary: It's been many months since you found the mirror and learn of its secrets, about the imprisoned elf who calls himself Aaravos. In those months you've befriended him, grown close to him in ways you can't much label, and now you awake on the other side of the mirror through magic you can't understand--and Aaravoscravesyour touch.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's the PWP that ['Through the Looking Glass'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17847242) was originally supposed to be, though this work is entirely separate and can be enjoyed with little context. I like to imagine the reader getting to know Aaravos in the months that the mirror was still in Viren's personal study, and they came upon it one day while cleaning or such and things went on from there :3c

When you open your eyes, you’re not in your bedroom. There’s something wrong even from the moment you gain consciousness, pulled out of your dreams with heavy limbs and even heavier realizations. It weighs on you but slowly drifts away as more and more of your consciousness lifts from sleep. The bed feels different, the blanket feels softer, the air even feels lighter. Before you have the willpower to open up your eyes you can tell that something is different, but it isn’t until you allow yourself to look that the notion becomes reality.

You’re not in your bedroom.

Fear creeps up into your mind as your displacement becomes increasingly obvious, but never to a point that it overtakes your thoughts completely. Though your heartbeat quickens in the center of your chest, never once do you move too sharp or quick; if anything, you rise from the bed with all the slow, languished motions as you might on any other morning, trying to savor as many moments beneath the warmth of a blanket as humanly possible.

A breath in, then a breath out. You peer across the foreign room, taking in all the details possible from your single point of observation. There is something off in the moment, in all the moments you spend looking at the room over around you, but it isn’t until your eyes finally fall to a tall mirror across the span of the room itself that it becomes bone-chillingly clear:

You’ve seen this room before. Though from a vantage point entirely different from the one you’re at now, you’ve absolutely seen this room before.

The mirror.

You’ve seen this room through the mirror. You’ve…you’ve seen it, if only through a sliver of vision allowed by the width of the very mirror you’re staring at right now–but that’s impossible. The mirror you’re used to seeing it through, is sitting soundly and untouched within Katolis Castle. Despite the fact that you’re looking at one that looks  the same, you know that you are very much not in Katolis at all, but somewhere very different and very, very far away.

You clutch uselessly at the blanket still covering your body as your brain tries to make sense of everything. It all feels so real, so absolute and physical, but there’s no way you can exist in this room, in this other world that you’ve only seen through the glass-like portal of a mirror. You’ve longed to see it, to exist beside the rows of books and beside the comforting fireplace, but it’s always been an obvious impossibility, a world beyond your reach as much as it’s inhabitant was beyond your touch.

But that’s when your brain freezes. You blink, suddenly pulling your face to the side, to further look around the room when you realize that you are very much alone. Hilariously, that frightens you more than if you weren’t, making you pull at the blanket and start tugging it around your shoulders in some semblance of a comforting pressure.

Luckily, you don’t have the time to start rolling over yourself in worry and nervousness. The sound of a door alerts you, making you glance to the origin of the sound just in time to see someone stepping through the doorway across the room, a familiar shape that makes your heart flip as much as it does calm from the fear.

“Aaravos?”

Your own voice feels feeble and weak, but it’s more than enough to get the elf’s instant attention, sharp gaze moving towards you with an almost incomprehensible speed.

Surprise, shock, worry, horror–those are all sorts of things you’d expect to see on his face, the face of a man you’ve come to know only as a friendly form locked away within a magical mirror, someone whose relationship with you is unknown and unspoken.

You trust him, you trust him more than you know you should, and his smile is enough to calm the rampant beating of your heart.

“You are awake,” is all that he says at first, pulling down the hood of his cloak and slowly stepping towards you. “You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for this. For you.”

He stops about an arm’s length away, standing just off the side of the bed. His soft smile and sharp eyes leave you a little confused, if only because he isn’t.

“Where-” you start, brows furrowing and confusion filling up your expression. “Where am I? How did I-….how did I get here?”

Fear starts to lace between your words as more and more you start to panic; Aaravos’ physical presence can comfort you for only so long before your brain starts to take control of the moment, knowing that something unnatural is at play, something unknown leaving you treading water and meaning without anchor beneath your feet and hands.

In fact, trying to make sense of anything feels just as useless as if you tried to climb up and out of the very ocean threatening to swallow you up. You’re a few seconds away from starting to babble in fear when you feel a hand press gently over the top of your head.

“Calm yourself,” a deep voice commands from above you, familiar and soft. “You are in no danger here.”

The touch lingers for several seconds. It’s warm and firm and carries weight behind it, the weight of something real despite not knowing how such a thing is even possible. Whether it’s his words or the touch itself, Aaravos is able to mute the worry in your chest without difficulty. There’s a power to it all, a power he makes no effort to hide in everything from the press of his fingers through your hair to the soft curl of his tongue around each syllable in every word.

It feels nice, if...a little surprising. There are so many questions swirling around your thoughts in lieu of anxiety, not a single of one them with an answer.

“How…is this possible?” your voice spills in soft, almost fearful question; as much as you cared to know how you can be enjoying the warm, physical and real touch of a man you’ve gotten to know for several months, you’re not a fool.

Unless Aaravos holds a power he has yet to tell you about, it’s impossible for you to be here with him. It’s impossible. You know nothing of magic but understand the impossibility surrounding his isolation within the confines of the mirror, a prison that even he claims to know so little about (and you trust him).

Instead of answering, Aaravos’ hand moves to your cheek. His palm feels warm against your skin--it feels so real.

“Would an answer change anything?”

Aaravos strokes his thumb over your cheek. His tone is soft, but it has a level of logic you can’t argue without sounding a little silly; what would it matter if you learned how he managed this feat? Would it change anything? There’s a flicker of fear in your belly as you wonder if knowing would destroy the experience, the vision--if this is but a dream you don’t want to risk destroying it, not when his touch is so warm and his voice so close.

You eventually shake your head in a wordless answer, happy only for the fact that you’re able to feel the press of skin as Aaravos traces his fingertips across your face, thumb finally lingering on the curve of your bottom lip. He catches your chin in the very same motion and tilts your face up to look at him.

A gasp leaves your lips the moment that your eyes catch his. They’re stars in a pool of darkness, sharp and powerful and knowing in all the ways that matter beyond your understanding. They look at you as if into your very soul, searching your thoughts and emotions as one may wade through warm ocean tides.

It’s hard not to feel enraptured by that gaze. He is an enigma, a shadow; as endless as the night sky and just as beautiful in all the ways you can scarcely describe. A lifetime as a poet under the tutelage of the greatest masters wouldn’t leave you with any greater knowledge of words that accurately describe the way Aaravos’ leaves you awestruck with but a glance, dumbfounded with only a smile.

You are still, frozen against his careful touch; the elf barely needs to press the side of his forefinger to get your face to tilt higher, to angle it up until you blink-

-and suddenly his lips are on yours.

There’s a measure of control in the kiss, restraint vaguely hidden with every detail. The soft press of his fingers over your chin, the softest trace of the tip of his tongue against your mouth, the barest bumping of your foreheads together before it all ends as quickly as it starts.

He’s leaning back just as your brain has time to catch up with the moment. One of your hands raise to cover your mouth, the motion something between shy and disbelieving, and you merely watch the elf in measured silence for reason or meaning that your muddled brain can’t string together.

Aaravos merely smiles in that familiar way of his; it’s not sharp, not forced, but a genuine smile of someone who has seen too much of life to care about anything but being happy in the moment.

But there’s something more.

He takes a step back and, still smiling, he moves over to the desk and reaches over to one of the books piled up high upon it’s old wooden surface.

“It’s been so long since I’ve seen the face of another that wasn’t filtered through dust-covered glass,” he says, fingers toying with the cover of a book, flipping open the first few pages though not caring enough to act interested in the words held within. “I used to count the days, but time doesn’t function the same in this realm as it does in yours.”

There’s a thread of pain hidden within the man’s words, loosely weaved into his wonder.

Aaravos lets out a sigh after a moment before closing the book, pulling it from the top of the pile, then flipping through the one below it.

You watch him for a few moments, enraptured by the slow, almost graceful movements of his body even as he pages through a book. His cloak hangs from his shoulders and hangs around him like a shroud, dark and speckled with stars that glimmer in much the same way as the marks on his skin do. Everything about him looks regal and ornate, you could have been fooled without a doubt if he wanted you to think he was royalty–the beauty of his face would have been enough.

A minute passes before you remember yourself and shift, pressing your feet to the floor over the edge of the bed and finally stand up. The wood flooring feels real, the cushion of the mattress is real, the coolness of the air against your skin when the blanket falls from your body–it’s all so real, as if you’d merely stepped into his room from your own.

The room is larger than you’d have assumed by merely looking at it through the mirror. The shelves of books go much higher, many times your height, and they look even more carefully organized than before. There’s a rolling ladder in the corner of the room–just out of sight from where the mirror sits–and it makes you wonder how much time Aaravos has put into his personal library of books and knowledge.

What sorts of books does a man like him read?

Your gaze moves about the room for a time, until it settles once more on the man himself. The feeling of his touch lingers on your thoughts, of his fingers against your skin and in your hair.

His lips against yours.

It makes you wonder how long it’s been since he’s touched another person at all. Though your relationship is hard to label, there’s enough between the two of you that you feel appropriate in wondering when the last time is that Aaravos was able to even physically be near another person, not even in a romantic or sexual form–how long has he been without the comfort of another living thing?

The thoughts are strong enough that they move your feet before you can comprehend what’s happening, moving you closer to the elf even as he plays his fingers along the pages of a book, turned away from you–ignoring you?

No, he’s not acting as if you aren’t there.

Very much the opposite.

This hunch is proven as truth when you reach a hand out to touch him, just barely brush your fingertips over the top of his back, across one of his shoulders. Though you can’t see it, you feel the man flinch against your touch, almost shake when your hand comes into contact with his form.

He takes in a breath. It’s sharp and quiet, but just loud enough for you to catch it passing over his lips.

“I would advise you not to do that.”

Though Aaravos’ words hold no venom, they carry thinly-veiled danger. It takes a few moments for you to realize that it’s not from a threat carried on his tongue, not one of violence or pain.

The meaning comes to you slowly, filling your body with heat and your mind with a million questions; you can still feel the ghostly warmth of his lips on yours, almost intoxicating in even the recent memory, and so your fingertips linger just barely over the curve of his shoulder.

“You said it yourself that I’m in no danger here,” you argue softly, turning Aaravos’ own words back on him. “And you’re the one who brought me here in the first place, however you managed that.”

Aaravos is silent for a moment. You can feel him weighing out an answer.

“I…underestimated what it would feel like.”

“Feel like?”

You quirk one of your brows, taking a slow, careful step closer to him. There’s a muted shiver from Aaravos as your hand presses flat to his shoulder, a touch so platonic and yet heavy with the meaning of something more. He doesn’t press towards your touch, but he doesn’t lean away either.

“You are not a fool to what is happening right now,” Aaravos’ voice is not a question; it’s a statement of firm assurance. “-and yet you don’t move away from me. Should I assume this as your permission?”

“Permission?”

The word falls from your lips before you realize what’s happening, before your brain filters the moment. In a flurry of motion you’re suddenly caught in Aaravos’ arms, your body pulled to his and your vision filled with his face and eyes and hard stare. Your entire field of view is nothing but his face, the glitter of starlight on his cheeks, the inhuman and barely-restrained look of lust in his eyes.

For the first time since meeting him, since he was nothing but a nameless form in a hidden-away mirror, you see genuine tension in the man’s expression.

“I brought you here because I _crave_ you,” he whispers, voice honey-sweet and low. “I’ve not felt the touch of another in more years than I can count and you are _mine_. The fact that you are even able to exist in this realm, however temporary, is proof enough to the fact.”

There’s such a weight in his words, like a stone dragging you deep beneath the warm waves of an emotion you’re unfamiliar with. There’s danger in his eyes, power in his words and you cannot find reason or thought against it. His fingers press into the curve of your waist, as if he’s desperately trying to keep you from moving away from him.

Desperation is a powerful emotion, driving men to ruin and pain as much as it does to success and pleasure. You can see it deep in Aaravos’ gaze, shamelessly obvious in his voice as it all wraps around your mind and thoughts and heart in one fluid, tremendous force. It’s as if he’s pulling your soul with the very magic you’ve associated him with and yet you know that the only force magnetizing you to him is your own feelings.

“If you don’t tell me otherwise, I will do all manner of things to you-” Aaravos’ lips move to your throat, skimming gently against your skin so that his words are a ticklish buzz making your heart race in your chest. “-even in this brief exchange there is so many possibilities. So many moans and whispers and pleading, oh how may I _serve_ you, beloved?”

A breath stills over your lips, eyes blinking and thoughts whirling to catch up with the moment as the warm ocean waves come crashing around you.

“Aaravos,” you whimper, caring so little that your voice sounds small and meek. “ _Please_.”

It’s all the permission that he needs; you feel a sharp smile against your neck and a purr in the back of his throat before you’re suddenly hoisted into his arms and carried towards the bed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I'm such a sucker apparently for emotion-laden conversations in the middle of sex, and this starry boy has got to be full of them--right beside being super touch-starved and desperate for companionship

For someone so attuned to magic, Aaravos is surprisingly strong. Well, surprisingly against anyone who is able to pluck you off your feet without so much as a noise of struggle, which are few in number and fewer still like him. He carries you with all the careless ease as a parent carries a child, or perhaps more accurately as one might carry a pet–with one arm beneath your shoulder blades and the other behind your knees. He holds you against his chest, grip firm and unwavering as he carries you over to the small bed from where you originally awoke from.

“Forgive any lack of decoration or flourish,” Aaravos says in honey-sweet apology, though it comes more from obligation than any sense of shame. “This room was not designed to entertain more than one specific guest.”

You don’t need to push for clarification, so instead you merely let him move you, lay you down over the plush mattress and press his hands over your body in one fluid motion as he stands back up to his full height. He starts to undress without pause, and such a simple motion as him shedding his cloak looks graceful and measured.

“If you’ve only been here for…however long it’s been,” you try to sound casual, sitting up so you can watch as he slowly, carefully gathers his cloak in his arms and lays it over the headboard. “Then how long has it been since you last…..”

There is absolutely no way to make _that_ sound casual.

Still, you try your best not to avert your eyes when they meet Aaravos’ own, his expression unreadable before he quickly turns away from you, shedding his vest. The air in the room shifts, but you don’t have the time nor the emotional prowess to read it accurately. For a moment you feel fear that you’ve crossed a line, a boundary of personal discomfort, so you hurriedly drop your gaze and look down instead to your own still-clothed body.

Ah, you’d been staring at him with such focus that you’ve forgotten to get yourself undressed.

It seems a good way to shift your attention without feeling awkward (though you manage to feel that way regardless); your fingers find the buttons of your simple shirt, undoing one after another with a nervous little shake to each little movement.

You’ve not even touched the third button before a pair of hands suddenly grab your wrists and stop them, leaving you staring dumbly as star-speckled fingers keep your hands still from your rush to undress.

“No,” comes the simple, yet powerful word. “That’s for _me_ to do.”

Aaravos doesn’t give you room nor time to reply any particular way as his body suddenly moves over you. Clad in but loose pants, he straddles your hips and pins you down, surprising you enough in the moment that you’re lost for words until his mouth is at your throat.

All you can go is gasp out in short bursts of air, half-words that don’t have any meaning than for their sound alone from your quivering lips. Sharp teeth and careful lips press to your skin in half-hearted bites that only remind you how hard he could mark you with but a fancy or strike of want, all of which he’s already admitted to having.

He’s deft with his fingers, undoing all the buttons of your top in barely a few seconds before gently urging your arms up so he can tug it free from your upper body. Despite all the squirming, you can’t register a moment that you don’t feel his lips on your throat, seeking out the most sensitive spots and toying the tip of his tongue against them. The same tongue and teeth and lips that can form such beautiful words seem to have much the same talent in pleasure, your body blooming with heat for anything he so much as cared to do with you.

“Aaravos,” you moan, his name broken and weak on your lips. “Please.”

It’s a simple word, but it feels as heavy as iron over the two of you, weighed down with want and need for so much more than just his mouth on your neck–though it’s proven to be a talent in itself for how worked up it’s already made you.

“So impatient,” the man murmurs, voice rumbling softly against your throat. “And here I worried for a moment that I was moving too quickly in my own feverish desire.”

The amusement fills his words softly, and his chuckle sounds even sweeter. It’s only then that you remember yourself and his situation, the irony coming down on you so hard that your face blooms with raging heat.

“I didn’t mean-”

“I’m not angry,” Aaravos cuts off your apology as he lifts his face from your throat. His hair falls from where it had been temporarily pulled behind his ears, falling around your face like a curtain of silvery silk. “You have not endured the same as I have, to be so distant from another person. To long for so much as a person’s voice or their simple company.”

Golden eyes shut slowly with a sigh, a gathering of thoughts physically showcased only by the soft glimmer of the marks scattered across the elf’s cheeks. For whatever it’s supposed to represent on him, you can’t ignore that to you, it looks akin to a blush.

You reach your hands up without thinking and hold Aaravos’ face between them, so your thumbs can trace over those glittering marks on his skin. For some reason you expect them to feel different on his skin, but there’s no texture or difference in anything–they are simply part of his flesh, yet somehow alive and glittering like the stars of the midnight sky.

The man’s eyes shoot open the moment your touch is upon him, wide and surprised in so much more than in the simple fact that you’re touching him.

No, it’s so much more than that.

They blink, those soulful eyes, and stare at you for what feels like forever.

Aaravos feels so warm as he lays over you, still straddling your hips and half-dressed, hair still a curtain around your face so that all your eyes can see is his expression; it’s soft and curious and _awed_ in so many layers beyond what you can hope to read, emotions running deeper than you’ve ever seen in another person.

“I have not felt the touch of another person for so long,” he says at last, a whisper so soft and deep that you’d not hear it if you were any farther from him.  “The warmth of skin against my own, the feeling of arms and hands and fingertips-”

Carefully, Aaravos brings one hand between you. He pulls one of your wrists from his face, but only so that he can press a kiss to your palm, and then to each of your fingertips.

“-I’ve craved the company of someone through sleepless nights and dreary days, someone I could touch and embrace in my arms if only once.”

His kisses grow gentler as he pulls your hand to his lips, to press one more on your inner-wrist. It’s as if he’s trying to worship the smallest detail, to commit it to memory through kisses alone.

All you can do is watch, bittersweetness tugging at your thoughts and mind–you can’t begin to understand what it feels like to be isolated like him, to be locked away without anything of the world beyond this room and it’s loneliness. To want just the company of another person, just the notion that they exist–it’s…horrible.

You take in a breath and feel steeled to the blossoming lust and compassion in your chest for the man above you, the man of midnight skies and starlit skin and silver-silk hair.

“I’m here now,” you say, hands reaching up and holding Aaravos’ face once more, cradling it with a love you’d almost feel ashamed for if the moment wasn’t already so saturated with emotion. “Touch me. Have me. Make me _yours_ , Aaravos.”

The man watches you for a moment, expression unreadable again though only for a few breaths of time.

And then it shifts into a look of _hunger._

“You’ve sealed away your fate,” he growls, voice going deep as the currents of a wondrous but powerful ocean. “You’ll have no hope to rid yourself of me now, silly human, when you’ve promised yourself to me like this.”

There had been a level of care in how Aaravos’ helped you remove your shirt, but there was no such gentleness for the rest of your clothes. He tears at what remains on your body, his hands making quick work while his mouth once more finds his mark of a passionate kiss.

It doesn’t take long before you’re stripped bare beneath him, mind swirling and thick with want.

“For someone who hasn’t been with another,” the words fall from your lips almost breathlessly. “-you seem plenty familiar with this sort of thing.”

You catch Aaravos’ wicked grin as he shifts his body to strip the last piece of clothing from himself, making sure the motion is slow and deliberate.

“I only said it has been long since I’ve had companionship; I never once said that I’m unfamiliar with the activity one has upon a bed.” A shift of his eyes, mischievous and sly. “Or the wall. Or the floor. Only the uncreative limit themselves to the passions that lovers can enjoy together.”

You’re not quite sure what to focus on in the moment.

There’s his words, of course, steeped in something strong and carnal–you can’t begin to filter through all of the context clues to what sorts of things a man like Aaravos has done before (the sorts of activities he’s familiar with), but you’re also quite distracted by the sight of his naked form as he straddles your hips once again, pants tossed and forgotten quickly enough in some vague direction from the bed.

He truly looks like a piece of the midnight sky. From his hands, feet and face, there’s a shift of color to his skin from light to dark, reminding you faintly of the color that lingers on the horizon in the short hours after the sun finally sets.

He’s covered in freckles of glittering stars–they shimmer as if alive, as if actual stars without any shift of light or movement of Aaravos’ body. Your eyes take in all of him at once but nothing at the same time–it’s overwhelming, honestly, because he’s kneeling over you, tall and proud and–

Oh.

Aroused. Also very aroused.

It’s amazing that there’s any shame left to fill your cheeks with heat by this point, but you otherwise can’t pull your gaze away from the stiff organ between his legs colored similarly to the rest of his body (which is to say there’s a white, starry speckling across its length). The shape is plenty familiar in that it’s obvious it’s a cock despite the difference in species, but it’s also much different than what you’re used to.

It’s tapered, for one, though long and thick enough to make your belly flip in shameless need for it inside you. How would such a shape even feel? Would it open you up easier, slide inside you without a need for careful preparation? The possibilities were enough to make your thoughts spin, body shifting beneath the man in unsettled heat.

“Are you intrigued by something?”

The familiar, mischievous voice from above yanks your eyes away, towards his face and confronting the realization that you’d been staring quite dumbfoundedly at his dick for at least a solid five seconds, if not longer.

All you can do is scrabble for words, though there’s no explanation that can hope to save you from the embarrassment.

“I just-” You can’t meet Aaravos’ eyes entirely. “-I uh, I’ve never. Seen. Or. Er.”

Perhaps it’s better just to _not_ try to excuse yourself or your arousal, your growing want for the man to be between your legs and make you cry out his name over and over again in unbridled lust.

He laughs–the sound is heavenly to your ears–and he finally leans down over you again, one hand anchoring his weight beside your head as the fingers of the other hold your chin so that you have to look at him.

“There’s no shame in being curious,” he all but purrs, lips pulled into a smirk. “There’s as much to learn about my body as I’m eager to learn about yours, but for now let’s focus on you.”

You try to shake your head.

“But you deserve to-”

“No,” Aaravos says, stilling your words with the weight of his command, even as it’s nearly whispered. “Your time is limited. I have seen you countless times through the mirror, I have watched you work and move, heard you laugh and sing even, yes, even when before you realized I could see and hear you.”

The meaning in his words sends a soft, but wondrous shiver down your spine. The two of you had been talking for several months, though you’d been almost enraptured with the mirror for many weeks before you ever learned that it was more than a well-crafted showpiece.

Aaravos has more to say, it’s obvious in the air and you feel as if breathless in waiting for him to continue. The man moves himself gently, but deliberately between your legs. You wrap them almost instinctively around his waist, ankles locked behind the small of his back.

He feels warm against your skin as his hand moves from your chin, skimming fingertips down the front of your body and tracing shapes against your skin.

“I’ve yearned to touch you from the moment you first spoke to me.”

The words are so honest, they feel as though plucked straight from the elf’s heart like stars from the night sky. His fingers continue to trace careless shapes against your skin until it reaches your hip where he grabs you and pulls you closer, your hips pressing harder to his in a moment of naked intimacy and heat.

“I’ve yearned to feel you just like this, to know what you sound like when my lips are on your skin and my tongue _tracing_ your pulse.”

His words sound delicate and soothing despite the fire they light in the pit of your stomach or the ache between your legs. You can’t hope to hide the arousal over your face–so you simply don’t. Your brows knit together and your hands reach up once more to Aaravos’ face so you can get his attention, even though you can’t find the words to plead for what you want–even though the very thing of your desire is pressing against you, hot and hard and throbbing in equal need.

“Oh,” he murmurs, as if captured by your eyes as they meet his. “So many things I want to do to you, my little human. For what time you have left with me for now, all I want is to feel you come completely undone around me.”

It takes a moment for your brain to filter his words, but by then you can feel that his hand has skimmed down farther between your bodies, dipping between your legs and pressing against your entrance. They’re cold and slick with something you don’t recall being on them but a moment before as he touched and caressed your skin.

“Don’t fear,” Aaravos coos before you even have the chance to feel worried. “It will help you relax.”

Whatever the substance is, you’re sure it’s magical in origin, slicking up your inner walls as one, then two digits carefully press inside you. Arousal and need come together in their own aggravation because you only want more, more of him inside you, opening you up and bringing you closer to climax.

“Aaravos,” is all you can plead out, hoping that your tone is enough to encourage him.

“Impatient,” is all the elf tuts, amusement in his tone once more. “It’s as if you’ve been wanting my touch for as long as I’ve wanted to touch you.”

You don’t correct him, and that only seems to make his resolve stronger, his fingers press deeper within you. Aaravos is not a man unfamiliar with the details of sex or pleasure, as he’s able to bring you close enough to the edge with his hand alone that you’re panting his name in broken gasps.

Your body feels as if on fire by this point, be it from his voice, his fingers, the aching press of his cock or some combination of it all–you need him now or else you’ll fall apart.

So you plead and beg and moan for him, the last threads of shame fallen from thought and care and replaced solely with the aching, gnawing desire to have his cock inside of you.

“Aaravos,” you beg, hips shifting, trying desperately to find more. “ _Have me_.”

You don’t get an answer, or at least not a verbal one from your lover. You’re almost worried that he isn’t _listening_ to you at this point, letting your words fly useless into the air when all you crave is his intimate attention–

When that’s exactly what you get. Thick fingers slide out of you moments before you feel sturdy hands press over your hips and pull them up and closer against his body. You can feel the aching heat of his cock against you, grinding and rubbing for only a few moments as Aaravos adjusts himself and then, with a single, powerful but earth-shattering motion, he thrusts inside of you.

There’s too much to process all at once.

Pleasure and satisfaction and heat and girth spreading your body open–there’s just so much that you can’t hope to do more than gasp and arch your back into the myriad of sensations.

“Oh,” you hear your lover growl. “Oh how sweet you feel around me, how wondrous and pure.”

There’s a filth to the words that spill from Aaravos’ mouth, a certain carnal filter that seems emphasized by his smooth tone and poetic vocabulary. He doesn’t hide his thoughts or pleasure from you as he starts a quick and ruthless pace.

Kisses and nips and everything in between find their place along your throat, jaw and lips, your name weaved between each and every one in what almost sounds like a deep, gravely prayer; the sound of it alone is able to bring you closer to the edge, like honey and adoration from a man who craves your attention and touch in ways you’ll never quite understand.

You want to enjoy the intimacy for as long as possible, to put the feeling of his arms around you and lips nipping at your jaw somewhere deep in your mind so that you’ll never forget. Oh, you want this moment to last for eternity, but there’s no such thing when climax comes far too swift, a heat building low in your stomach that becomes far too much to ignore.

“I want-” you say, trying desperately to communication a million words in one breath. “Aara-v-vos I’m–I’m getting close.”

You expect certain things from a lover when you’re in their arms, writhing in need beneath their form. You expect certain words and whispers, promises and languid motions of needy bodies seeking the apex of pleasure–but you don’t expect what Aaravos does at all.

One of his hands seek out yours, gripping tight into the thin sheets of the bed. You feel him press his palm to yours and thread your fingers together as best as one can in the heat of the moment. You feel his lips on the underside of your jaw and his hips rocking feverishly against yours, making the bed bump and squeak with a filthy rhythm into the otherwise empty room.

“Sing for me,” the man finally says, a needy whisper that seems to break through his composed, deep voice. “Sing your pleasure for me, let yourself go so I may hear every beautiful syllable.”

You can’t even think of disobeying such a loving command. Pleasure comes in thick, hot waves over your form, leaving you to writhe as if your body barely knows what to do with it. Legs tighten around Aaravos’ waist as your body clenches around him, milking his cock and spurring him into orgasm with a kiss-muffled moan of his mouth to your throat for a mark you’ll certainly tend to tomorrow.

Every moment, stretched and gooey and warm, is filled with your voice. With his soft demand echoing around your mind, it’s all you can do in simple obedience but to moan, to let out all the noises that come to your lips with the pleasure of his touch and love and _everything_.

His name makes up most of it.

Aaravos, oh Aaravos, you don’t have quite the lilt to your words or tone, the honey-sweet depth, but you hope it sounds as pretty and lovely to him.

Somewhere in it all, in the heat and pleasure and rawness of climax, everything goes white around you.

...

And then, suddenly, you’re awake.

Not in Aaravos’ arms or even in his bed–not even in the room behind the mirror–you instead wake to find yourself in your own quarters. The walls are familiar, the floor is familiar, your very bed is familiar.

With a blink, the realization fades into your thoughts that you’re back home, in your own world and bedroom and–

No.

You stumble out of bed with a gasp, a rushed energy to your limbs. No, oh no it can’t have been a dream, please don’t let it all have been nothing but a feverish dream-

It doesn’t take long to hurry down the hall and to the study, to the mirror that sits so innocently by itself in the corner of the room. Without hesitation you pull the cover from over the piece, hoping almost desperately to see a familiar face behind the glass, maybe even teasing you for being so cute or pretty or some other lovely compliment that he’d surely say of you in the heat of sex.

But you don’t see anything. The mirror acts in the moment as simply a mirror, no haughty elf standing on the other side of any magical portal and no indication that what you’d waken from was nothing more than a dream of one castle-keeper’s silly crush on something–someone–that can’t be understood.

It’s not uncommon that you don’t see Aaravos in the mirror, it’s not completely his lack of appearance that leaves you momentarily disheartened, but the nagging worry that it was nothing more than a midnight fantasy that felt a bit too real.

You’ll have to ask him about it in the morning, if the day is cloudy and the metaphorical stars align just right. Though waiting will only leave you filled with more worry, it’s the only option you have.

But.

Wait.

You look at the mirror once more, focusing on your reflection in the surface. More specifically you look at your neck, catching a spot of color on your skin. It piques your curiosity enough that you tilt your head to the side, angling yourself so that you can get a clear look at it.

A bruise.

You feel heat in your cheeks at the recognition that the color on your throat, one that is high enough that you’ll have to figure out how to cover up–

–it’s kiss-shaped.


End file.
